“Do another one,” said Lars.
“That’s the only authentic trick I remember,” Ashley said. “Everything else was kiddie stuff. Fake sleeves, trapdoors in cups, that sort of thing.”
“You missed your calling,” Ed said.
“Yeah?” He smiled, and for a split-second, Darby glimpsed pain in his eyes. “Well, accounting is pretty badass, too.”
Lars moped by the door, disappointed that the show was over.
Darby decided that her next step had to be Ashley. He was strong enough to fight, at least. She’d catch him alone, in the restroom maybe, and tell him about the girl. She’d make sure he understood the gravity of the situation; that right now, a child’s life was at stake outside. Then she’d have backup, when she chose her moment to attack and detain Lars—
“Oh!” Ashley clapped his hands together, startling everyone. “I know how we can pass the time. We can play circle time.”
Ed blinked. “What?”
“Circle time.”
“Circle time?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell is circle time?”
“My aunt is a preschool teacher. She uses this to break the ice with small groups. Basically, you’re all seated in a circle, kind of like we are right now, and you all agree on a topic, like my favorite pet, or whatever. And then you take turns, clockwise, sharing your answer.” Ashley hesitated, glancing from face to face. “And that’s . . . that’s why it’s called circle time.”
Silence.
Finally, Ed spoke. “Shoot me in the face, please.”
Everyone was distracted again, so Darby paced back to the Espresso Peak counter and grabbed a brown napkin. She slipped it inside her notebook, clicked her pen, and scrawled a message.
“Guys, we’re all snowed in here together, and we’ve got another seven hours to go.” Ashley tried valiantly. “Come on. We’re going to get cabin fever if we don’t open up and talk a little more.”
Ed grunted. “We’re talking right now.”
“So, circle time, then—”
“I’m not playing circle time.”
“I’ll go first.”
“So help me God, Ashley, if you make me play circle time, the snowplows will arrive tomorrow morning and find a rest stop full of bloody corpses.”
Darby clicked her pen. Let’s hope not.
“I like circle time,” Lars chimed in.
Ed sighed. “Yeah, of course he does.”
“Alright. A good ice-breaker question is phobias, or biggest fears,” Ashley said. “So . . . I’ll start off this round, and I’ll tell you all my biggest fear. Sound good?”
“Nope,” said Ed.
Lars had set down his brochure. He was listening.
“You’re all going to think my phobia is weird,” Ashley said. “It’s not a normal fear, you know, like needles or spiders . . .”
Darby folded the napkin twice with her message inside it. She knew she was about to do something that couldn’t be undone. This was tonight’s point of no return. From now on, one wrong glance, or misplaced word, and the Wanapani rest area could explode into violence.
“So, I grew up in the Blue Mountains,” Ashley told the room. “When I was a kid, I used to walk the railroads and explore these old, boarded-up coal mines. The hills are just Swiss cheese out there. And this particular mine wasn’t on any map, but locally, it was called Chink’s Drop.”
Sandi frowned. “Okay.”
“You know,” Ashley said. “As in, the derogatory term for Chinese people—”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“I’m guessing a miner must have fallen and died, and—”
“I get it—”
“And he must have been Chinese—”
“I get it, Ashley.”
“Sorry.” He hesitated. “So, uh, I’m seven and dumb as hell. I crawled under the barricade and went alone, without telling anyone, and brought just a flashlight and some rope. Like a pint-sized Indiana Jones. And, I mean, it wasn’t scary at first. I followed the narrowing tunnel deeper, and deeper, past these ancient ore carts, over these mangled eighteenth-century train rails, through one blocked door after another. Sound carries funny down there, all warbling and ringing. And I’m sliding around this old wooden door, and I rested my hand on the corroded hinge for maybe a second. And . . . something awful happens.”
Darby noticed Lars’s attention had drifted back down into his Colorado Air brochure, so she seized her moment. She slid off the bench, and her wet Converse hit the floor with squishy thuds.
Ashley made an abrupt slice motion. “The door swings shut. The hinge snaps closed, like these two rusty metal jaws, obliterating my thumb, fracturing three metacarpals. Boom. It didn’t hurt at all at first. Just shock. And this door was three hundred pounds of solid oak, completely unmovable. And there I was, alone in the pitch black, a half-mile below the surface.”
Darby walked toward him.
“Two days without food or water. I slept a few times. Scary dreams. Fatigue, dehydration. I didn’t have a knife, but I seriously considered losing my thumb. I remember staring at it with my dying flashlight, wondering how hard I’d have to twist my body weight against the hinge to . . . you know.”
Ed leaned forward. “You’ve still got both thumbs.”
Darby passed around Ashley’s chair and discreetly dropped her folded napkin in his lap. Like kids passing a note in high school.
He noticed — but smoothly finished his story, giving Ed an ironic thumbs-up: “Correct-amundo. Turns out all I had to do was wait. Some teenagers from a different town happened to break into Chink’s Drop and they walked right into me. Saved by pure, dumb, lottery-ticket luck.”
“And . . .” Sandi looked at him. “Your phobia is . . . what, being trapped?”
“No. Door hinges.”
“Door hinges?”
“I hate door hinges,” Ashley said, making an exaggerated shiver. “They freak me out, you know?”
“Huh.”
Darby stopped by the window, watching snowflakes pelt the glass, and waited for Ashley to read her note. In her periphery, she saw him lift the napkin and unfold it under the table’s edge to furtively read it on his knee, out of Ed and Sandi’s view. In scratchy blue pen, Darby had written: MEET ME IN THE RESTROOM I HAVE SOMETHING YOU NEED TO SEE.
He paused.
Then he produced a black pen from his own pocket, thought for a moment, and scribbled a response. Then he stood up and casually approached the window, too, fluidly slipping the napkin back into Darby’s hand as he passed. He did this as naturally as a pickpocket.
She unfolded it and read his handwriting.
I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND.
She sighed. “Jesus Christ.”
He looked at her.
She mouthed: Not what I meant.
He mouthed: What?
Not. What. I. Meant.
Now they were both standing conspicuously by the window with their backs to the room. Lars was probably watching them, wondering what they were mouthing to each other. Ed and Sandi, too—